poetry, proza

The Perfect Love

I’d give you the¬†perfect love
and the wretch, without which there would be no perfect love
I’d give you a night that has yet to be born
and morning with vile intentions that has not happened yet

I’d give you lavishly morning in the wasteland
I would given you all the sweet languages
and all the shapes that were slowly matured in me

I’d give you them, wolves and jackals
and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy
and Belgrade on fire from which I
managed to escape,
roasted, skinned and cooked
I would give you Heaven and Hell

I’d give you the fire
and the quiet joy
and the child’s language

All that is both happy and sad
and wounds that emerge from the mud
and my childhood
and my father whose hands killed me twice
and his words were rubbed into the places that hurt

I’d give you my luxuriously morning in the desolation
and feeble tail surfaces in the text
and truncated chairs in my poems

I’d give you everything!

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